A Grossblank is a poetry form of 12 unrhymed lines of 12 syllables each. Some of the students created a quarter grossblank of 6 by 6. Holidays by Isabella
Throw me Mardi gras beads.
Thanksgiving has all foods.
Christmas brings lots of toys.
Valentine's Day has love.
4th of July fireworks.
Birthday presents and cake.
But What's to Come
by Kaylie
(inspired and deticated to the Hunger Games)
At sunrise, she runs, barefoot, in leaves of green, words
do not come to mind. She dunks under the fence, into
the woods, where stores are not seen, and hunger isn't
abroad. Where no trespassing takes place. Into dreams,
she runs past men and voices, beyond the breaking
dawn, into a swirl of familiar places.
She lifts her bow at a rustle, her arrow finds
a home in a rabbit's eye. She gathers berries
of the sweetest aroma, breath in the air, hush.
Out of the woods, names are called, unpromising to
the tributes, for they must survive to be victors.
Through the darkest times, many deaths will come alive.
The Magic Touch
by Colby
Along the road in the hot summer sun. A dog
a mirage in the dust wondering in his wake.
The heat is unbearable with the sun floating,
unforgiving in the open. No shade in the still.
Starting to feel abandoned. Far, far, away. Fear
in his soul like a pup seperated, detached
from its kin. The miraged dog leading the lonely.
Walking barefoot in along the trails through thick dust.
He walks and roams in spite of hunger and fatigue.
Still he follows the dog his wake, his destiny.
The dog is getting closer. It's close enough to
touch.The man speeds up inching ever closer. Touch. Oasis.
Holidays
by Isabella
Throw me Mardi gras beads.
Thanksgiving has all foods.
Christmas brings lots of toys.
Valentine's Day has love.
4th of July fireworks.
Birthday presents and cake.
But What's to Come
by Kaylie
(inspired and deticated to the Hunger Games)
At sunrise, she runs, barefoot, in leaves of green, words
do not come to mind. She dunks under the fence, into
the woods, where stores are not seen, and hunger isn't
abroad. Where no trespassing takes place. Into dreams,
she runs past men and voices, beyond the breaking
dawn, into a swirl of familiar places.
She lifts her bow at a rustle, her arrow finds
a home in a rabbit's eye. She gathers berries
of the sweetest aroma, breath in the air, hush.
Out of the woods, names are called, unpromising to
the tributes, for they must survive to be victors.
Through the darkest times, many deaths will come alive.
The Magic Touch
by Colby
Along the road in the hot summer sun. A dog
a mirage in the dust wondering in his wake.
The heat is unbearable with the sun floating,
unforgiving in the open. No shade in the still.
Starting to feel abandoned. Far, far, away. Fear
in his soul like a pup seperated, detached
from its kin. The miraged dog leading the lonely.
Walking barefoot in along the trails through thick dust.
He walks and roams in spite of hunger and fatigue.
Still he follows the dog his wake, his destiny.
The dog is getting closer. It's close enough to
touch.The man speeds up inching ever closer. Touch. Oasis.